i want you to have this this piece of me

i want you to have this
this piece of me
i thought of going there once
i thought of you when i was leaving
there isn't much time
as much time as each of us has
you'd say given
but there is no giver

in between breaths on the cliff
above the water
looking down at the jutted bolders
shoulders of giants
waves energy charge
flames flickering across the pass
and i know that they go on

the hunt steadies on
 all on
  all the time
on the buses and the streets
soldiering on
they are the brave ones
they are hound masters

for i am selfish
welcome back from the dead cloudy monday
i am the solipsistic impulse
i am the cake and then i am nothing
and it matters little whether i stand or fall
winds puncture my skin
bolts pierce the side
blood under skin long and lean
scriveners historical
acquiescence
acceptance
and it comes

i tripped over the beautiful recollection of you in the sun

i tripped over the beautiful recollection of you in the sun
wandering away into the placid brown water
as your legs disappeared and shards of light scratched my eyes
you waved me to come; to join you

i did not because i did not want to move to wreck this dream
i was living. so i watched you and i smiled thinking {i could
remember it this way} so to me that
is
how it happened.

i know now it is an illusion. as memories are. photos are. words are
superfluous and subjective
i used to think: i will remember this moment by studying it and never
letting it be altered no matter the
changes over
me (over

you) we change as you know better than anyone else, because you've
captured that moment somewhere forgotten
gone through the tempestuous ephemera
flashes to laughter, cringing screaming, temptation to
meaning

it may be that this signifies something \ a godly design, a place
eternal. but i doubt it. that is our dilemma & one unquenchable
desire = truth. an abstraction we seek that exists in our playground
imaginations: buried deep in the sludge under brown water that
swallowed your watched body with the
sun tearing eyes. 

Goal setting

he always told me to think about goals
setting as if i needed to know
what would happen if i wanted to get
there

which i did not want to do and so he
thought me unruly like the sun
{blink to make it cloudy} little
one

he thought of me as a child in ways
perpetual, strident, jejune,
naive - insincere i was to him
young

he was old. it was not secret
ive in any sort of sense
not a surprise seeing his shriveled arms
numb

skin hanging bones outlines i could
caliper precise measurement, fate
determined stature, within inches. his
skull

knotted like an old oak tree lump from
a broken branch healed over
hundreds of years + deep roots
down

who'd plot that chart? sophisticate
sensibility striven to means
of an aged path on this soliloquy
over

i remember his toes, black blood
clotted mangled wood chips
as his last breath drew out his
body

he died then and there - in a bed on his back - with me staring
at him. a soldier on guard checking targets. words in memories: prepare
to fail, fail to prepare - and goals, ultimate goals
he reached [i will too] unprepared or
not. 

Philanthropy

along comes a billionaire who leaves a hundred million dollars
and becomes a university
. and they call that philanthropy
in contrast to misanthropy {seems more appropriate to
me}

but maybe i'm alone in thinking
this way. isn't that generous,
some say
posterity tends to think of it as an archetypal
munificent society - humble masses prostrate - and everyone concludes
what a great american potentate
who gave and gave
and gave - who else would do such a thing
to benefit lives of strangers? capture-d
names on buildings,
street signs [historical blinds] - seek and ye shall
find

who else could? Listen: 3 american people #greatbusinessmen
hold more wealth than 50% of america; who
can donate a hundo mill? who now
who?

in 1965, in Milwaukee - now the most segregated
city in the great USofA
- 88% of blacks lived within a 2 square mile area near the city's
heart. redlining. inner core. black families held wealth
seven times < [less than] white families
who today hold 40 times > $greaterthan$ the wealth of
black families  --- ask
who are the icons and humanitarians?
value the valuable ! exclaim the concentrated
cash assets -

isn't the right question: why does anyone have 100,000,000 bucks to gift to anyone
anyway?
what kind of world
have we created in which one family
has that much wealth
when so many have diddly+squat?

before we climb on the high horse - (aside] i'll point out that it's a rocker - to affirm
our own humility - lest it's forgotten...
it is this way because a minority of shareholders
wanted it this way and we let /em do
it - and to be perfectly candid
we're not shareholders. richest 1% own more than half of those
stocks - take stock of that...

real philanthropy is one who
gives who cannot give.
&real benefactor's nary the scion of some rich well-to-do know-it-all

our last remaining soul
of philanthropy
resides in the meekest
compassion.

time it is to cease celebrating the celebrated
capitalist mogul entrepreneur
cherish the reluctant
pauper - }remember {no title of nobility shall be granted
by the united states}
no lifelong titles, comrades; that's
no praise
philanthropy

Liverpool - a week of disgust and utter joy

I've been a Liverpool fan for some time and a committed fan since Michael Owen debuted with the team. Listening to Pink Floyd's Meddle as a kid, I always wondered about the hauntingly mesmerizing singing at the end of Fearless. When I found out that it was the audience at a Liverpool match in Anfield, I started following the club. And why not follow a club whose motto is "You'll never walk alone?"

Ian Rush, John Barnes, Robbie Fowler - great players I started to cherish - and then Michael Owen burst onto the scene. I was hooked. He had some of the greatest goals - sprinting at full speed, catching the ball on his left foot, and then knocking it into the netting with his right - just sheer genius.

I was wild about Owen's play. Anytime he was on the pitch, a goal could happen within seconds. In my mind, Owen scored in almost every other match. Silly as it may sound, I advocated naming our first son Owen, which we did; my wife happened to really like the name. I kept my motives somewhat secret until he was born and I saw Owen on the birth certificate. It's a good name and I owned several jerseys with the name on it already. People now thought I wore a Liverpool jersey with my son's name on it - "Isn't that cute."

These were good days.

Every football fan knows about the history that hooliganism has played in English football. And every fan knows about the bad reputation Liverpool fans have been tagged with. They've been blamed  for the Heysel disaster, which is disputable, and then were blamed for years for the tragedy of Hillsborough. They've been vindicated for the Hillsborough tragedy, well documented in Phil Scraton's horrifying retelling, but Liverpool hooliganism is stuff of legend; we wish that's where it would stay, but now hooliganism has reared its ugly head once again.

Visiting Barcelona ahead of the Champions League tie, Reds fans ruined the Placa Reial clogging the walkways with trash and then dumping bystanders into the fountain.

In videos, several Reds supporters can be seen pushing and plopping people right into the fountain. Then they're laughing and carrying on with bigoted remarks.

It's quite a nasty scene. The club admonished the fans.

But all of us fans around the world were left thinking: hooliganism makes it hard to wear the jersey proudly even with Owen on the back.

It makes it hard to keep rooting for Liverpool and when they fell to Barcelona after two goals from the brazen Lionel Messi, including a free kick as good as any you'll ever see, it almost felt justified.

It certainly is hard to root for a side supported by fans who behave as poorly as they did in Barcelona.

This was a disastrous defeat and a disgraceful show from visiting fans. Liverpool fans. Gross.

              ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And then the home leg. No news of hooliganism; thank god. No Salah. No Firmino. And early in the second half, no Robertson. No chance. Trailing 0-3 in aggregate, the Reds would need to score 4 goals to advance without conceding a single goal to Messi, Saurez and co.

While I worked, my brother in South Africa watched as I listened to the UEFA provided radio commentary.

Football/soccer is fantastic to listen to on a radio broadcast, by the way. It feels like radio was created for football broadcast. There are a few sports like that: baseball, hockey (believe it or not). Basketball and NFL don't work well on radio. But football/soccer works - it just feels right.

My brother and I chatted on WhatsApp as the drama unfolded. Initially we gave Liverpool slim to no chance of drawing (like nearly everyone) - they'd have to score 3 goals without conceding 1 - without their most prolific scorer, Salah, and without the creative play-making of Firmino. Not a very likely scenario.

Then they scored 7 minutes into the game. What probably should have been a Henderson goal, bowled gracefully into the path and onto the foot of a grateful and clutch Origi. 1-0.

When the whistle blew, I asked my brother his impressions of the first half. "Liverpool has been outplaying Barca." And that effort paid off shortly after the break.

About 8 minutes into the second half, Wijnaldum's beautiful running blast made it 2-0, 2-3 on aggregate, one more would force extra-time. Two minutes later the tie was unbelievably tied; Wijnaldum suddenly grew 6 inches and got a head on a lovely cross; he'd scored again, 3-0, 3-3 on aggregate.  And suddenly there was a real possibility of victory. Anfield knew what was possible now. My radio trembled with the roaring cheers.

"Barca look like sh!t," my brother observed. And it wasn't long before the pandemonium burst through the airwaves like an F5 tornado. Origi scored with a little trickery from Alexander-Arnold and it was just what was needed 4-0. Barcelona threatened but even the legend of Messi couldn't conjure up a goal. The memories of Roma surely filled the heads of the Barcelona fans. "You'll never walk alone" echoed through Anfield - the radio broadcast carried every note across the globe.

What a result - what a week. From sheer disappointment and utter disgust at what transpired in Barcelona to absolute joy. Liverpool improbably would play in another Champions League final.

And two brothers followed the action on opposite sides of the world.

This is the sheer power of sport. Whether you are a fan or not, sports have the ability to cross geographical, political, and economic divides. It can create indelible scenes of disgust and enduring scenes of grown men crying with pure joy. Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart. And you'll never walk alone. You'll never walk alone. You'll never walk alone. Liiiiiverpooool!